


Raspberry Thursday

by rayvanfox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never experienced a 'raspberry' being performed on him before. The only way John can explain what they are is to give him one. Which causes unanticipated (and then highly anticipated) results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raspberry Thursday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [professorfangirl (lizeckhart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizeckhart/gifts), [msaether](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msaether/gifts).



> spawned from a conversation with professorfangirl and a drawing from msaether [here.](<a%20href=)

He lived in mortal fear of John.

Well, not really. 'Fear' was a strong word. Trepidation, possibly. Mild anxiety, maybe. Anticipation, certainly. The kind that six year olds get on Christmas Eve night. It kept him up. In more ways than one.

He'd somehow managed to get through childhood without ever having someone plant a raspberry on his belly (that 'somehow' had to do with Ice Queen Mummy frowning upon such frivolity, but we can leave that be for now).

Therefore, he had no idea what John was talking about when he started giggling about raspberries. He thought they were talking about jam. John had bought some earlier that day and they’d been eating it on some tea cakes Mrs. Hudson had made for them. And yes, the flavor of said jam was of the relevant fruit variety. But then later, when they were getting ready for bed, John mentioned something about raspberries being ticklish, which sounded like utter nonsense to him.

"Don't be ridiculous. Plants don't feel sensation like that."

"No, I was...don't you know what a raspberry is? Or did you delete it?"

"It's a fruit, John. I'm not a philistine--"

"No, it's a, well...um, it's hard to explain. My mum used to give them to Harry and me when we were kids, we always laughed our heads off at them."

"Please start making sense soon, or I'm going to leave this conversation for more interesting pursuits."

"Geez, fine. Look, let me show you." John stretched out his fingers towards Sherlock with a wickedly mischievous look on his face, then pounced on his exposed abdomen and put his mouth against it, blowing air around his lips tight against the skin. It was warm, wet, made a ridiculous farting noise, and tickled so much it bordered on painful. The whole scenario, and the sensation, made him giggle slightly.

"Heh...Augh! John, no! What are you doing?!"

He came up grinning like a fool. "Giving you a raspberry, of course."

"That was a horrible experience, don't ever do it again." 

But there was something in his face, or his voice, which had betrayed the inexplicable excitement that such a ludicrous experience had elicited in him, because John's eyes flashed blue fire for just a second before he spoke.

"I can't promise that, sorry. Raspberries just seem to happen every once in awhile. Usually when you least expect them."   
It was like something a dad would say to their child just to keep them riled up and feeling silly, making them happily fearful of something exciting that might surprise and delight them, make them laugh. Something for them to dread and long for simultaneously. 

And the insane part was, that's almost exactly how Sherlock felt about it. Because John was the kind of person who didn't threaten lightly. He carried through on his promises no matter the outcome, good or bad. He was also good at playing the long game. Waiting until it really was the moment you least expected it. Once he waited six months to get back at Sherlock for a prank he had played (in the flat, with John's favorite pair of pants). And the revenge was public (at the yard) and exacting (only _he_ understood the full weight of the humiliation, everyone else was just mightily confused and mildly titillated). 

At any rate, there they were, going about life as if everything were normal, and John wasn't looking for the perfect opportunity to land a resounding raspberry on Sherlock's belly. _And_ as if Sherlock wasn't constantly anticipating that moment. Staying vigilant so as not to be caught unawares. Enjoying the dread and the longing as they chased each other across his skin. 

* 

What was it about a raspberry that was so enticing? He'd tried to categorise its qualities and came up short. There was no way to explain it. You just had to experience it. And then you'd understand. 

Because he was not sure if this was how it works for everyone, or if he was just wired wrong, but there has yet to be a sensation that has caused such pleasure-bordering-on-pain as a stupid raspberry on his fucking stomach. It must’ve hit his tickle sensors just right to shoot bolts of lightning through every pathway, many of them leading straight to his cock. The last thing he wanted, however, was for John to learn of that particular quirk. It would not end well. 

He gave up walking around the flat shirtless, a habit he had formed when he and John finally started sleeping together, now afraid he would be an easier target. He refused John entry to the bathroom while he was occupying it, another thing that had become habitual now they were sharing a bed. If the lack of casual intimacy bothered John, he didn't let on. Which was the single most damning piece of evidence that he was lying in wait to catch Sherlock at any moment. 

And then he did. Twice. 

The first time, John almost lost it because Sherlock squealed when John tackled him, grabbing round the middle and tickling as he got under his shirt and blew on his chest. He was beside himself giggling at the noises and squirms Sherlock performed throughout the attack. Sherlock, of course, pouted. Then chuckled. Then frowned at how the ticklish sensation had practically burned and remained as a phantom ache along his hips and lower back.

The second time, Sherlock lost it. As in, he got angry. 

They were cuddling on the couch, watching something on the telly (it's irrelevant what) and John started reaching around them, hunting for the remote control. He reached between them, around Sherlock's hips to the other side, moved the cushion they were leaning on, everything. Then he reached once more across Sherlock and pinned him with his shoulder as he pulled up his shirt and pressed his mouth to a spot that was virtually on his side. The ticklish sensations jolted through his back and up and down his spine. The sharp, phantom pain of it made him buck his hips and shove John off. 

"Heehee--AH! Stop! I told you _not_ to, John! It _hurts_!"

"Hurts?" John had his fingers pressed to his mouth, the violent motion must have caught him unawares and banged his lip against his teeth. "It hurts you?"

"Let me see your mouth, are you okay?"

"Don't. I'm fine." He batted Sherlock's hand away. "How does it hurt you?"

"The ticklish sensation. It has an edge of pain to it."

"Oh. In a bad way?" John had been noticing his penchant for certain things that hurt a bit recently, though neither of them had spoken of whether it was something to intentionally bring into their repertoire.

"I...I honestly don't know."

John resisted cocking an eyebrow at him, but couldn't help the pull of one side of his mouth. "Well let me know when you do."

Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to condone anymore raspberry shenanigans, so instead of answering, he pouted and sulked the rest of the show. Which John ignored, like a sensible person, going so far as to kiss the top of his head when he got up to make tea. When he stood up, Sherlock noticed the remote control peeking out from underneath the union jack cushion on John’s side of the couch.

*

Consent and boundaries were foreign concepts that Sherlock was still unsure about, so John had early on instituted a safeword so he would be able to express when he really needed his protests to be heard or his boundaries respected. Sherlock had fared pretty well with this strategy, improving as time went on.

But he himself had never once thought to have such a thing. To his mind, John could do anything he liked and if it wasn't appealing to him, he'd examine why instead of outright rejecting it. There had been multiple experiments in that vein, and when the data was conclusive, Sherlock had come to John with his findings, letting him know exactly what worked and what didn't, and why. 

But for some reason, he really didn't want to go through that route with this thing. With the raspberry and his response to it (what an inane name for something that had started to take over his thoughts to the point of distraction).

At any rate, without experimentation a conclusion was reached, in a somewhat spectacular manner.

It was late one night after completing a case, and they were celebrating in bed, as they were wont to do. The adrenaline-fueled part of their intimacy was over and they were gearing up for another, less manic, go around. Sherlock was on his stomach, John perched above him, spreading his hands over the expanse of ivory flesh that was the entire length of Sherlock's back. The hands started out easing the tension in his shoulders, then kneaded their way down to grasp his hips as John trailed kisses behind, all down his spine. When he reached the lumbar region he pulled Sherlock's hips up slightly and pressed his mouth to the exact middle of the small of the back. The pressure and warmth felt soothing, though the shadow of a tickle from John’s nose had Sherlock clenching his hands in the sheets by his head. 

Then, for absolutely no good reason, John opened his mouth and blew air against Sherlock's back. The raspberry, being located at the base of his spine, shocked a bolt of tickle-pain straight up to raise the hairs on the nape of his neck, and straight down, electrifying the entire length of his cock. He tipped his head back and arched his back like a cat, drawing his hips even further up, growling as he protested. 

"Aaaahh! _Jooohn_..."

"Sorry, luv. Couldn't help myself." John chuckled, sheepishly. 

"Well help _me_ now, this is intolerable." The growl had not left. If anything, it had deepened.

"Are you okay? What do you need?"

"Ah--press your hand to the base of my spine. Hard. Quickly." He did. The pressure helped quell the electricity dancing along his   
spine, but it seemed to trap much of the sensation at the two ends of the chain. His neck felt on fire and his member must have been shooting sparks. “Jesus. Fuck. Okay, now I need you to touch my neck, and my cock.”

“Heh. Right. Whatever you say.”

“Come _on_ , John. You were the one that started this. Everything’s on fire. I need you to put it out.”

“Yes, all right. Hang on.” John reached with his free hand for Sherlock’s neck. 

“Don’t tickle, grab tight.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if they hadn’t been shut. John grabbed the back of his neck and the dancing nerves stilled. Then he moved the hand from the small of Sherlock’s back to reach around his hips. 

“NO! Oh God, no, don’t stop pressing against my lumbar. Shit.” Sherlock arched his back again, writhing in what looked like intense pain. 

“What am I supposed to do, try to reach your cock with my mouth from here?”

“No, I don’t know, I just... _ah_!”

“All right, okay, here, move round a bit. Like this.” John got him sitting up and facing him so he could hold Sherlock’s head while reaching his legs around his back, pressing his calves into it, and then he looked at Sherlock’s face as he grabbed hold of his shaft. “Is this all right?”

“Ha-aahh...yes. Oh God, thank you. Yes.” The fire had subsided and he could finally breathe again. “Come here. This is where I want your mouth.” He pulled John into a long, slow, deep, grateful kiss, as if he was parched and quenching his thirst with John’s mouth. John’s hands started moving in response to the hotness of it. “Easy, soldier. Embers can catch flame again quickly if one isn’t careful.”

“Think we can find a way of harnessing said flame and not allow it to burn the entire house down?”

“We can try.” 

And so they did. It proved massively enjoyable for both of them. Sherlock started to think of himself as having an ‘on button’ (or three) and John will always think of there being two types of nights in bed with Sherlock: ordinary nights, and raspberry nights.

(John also didn’t stop his periodic raspberry ambushes because if he did them right--ie, on an arm or a leg or somewhere neutral (never the neck, they learned, as that once caused bloodshed)--he could get Sherlock to emit high-pitched giggles and act as close to a giddy six year old as John ever hoped to see, and the simple, silly pleasure of it made them both glow bright pink.)

**Author's Note:**

> sorry it didn't actually turn into smut. i didn't have the time.


End file.
